Wild Wild West The Night of the Devil's Triangle

The Night of the Devil's Triangle

by Jill Baker

Exhausted, lungs burning, the swimmer kicked his feet and pushed his arms down against the water with all his flagging strength. He barely clung to consciousness; he had no idea how he came to be in the water or how many times he'd struggled for the surface. His world had narrowed to the roiling ocean around him, the thundering storm above him, and the overwhelming need to breathe. All he knew was that he must get to air.

He almost made it. He came so close he could see the lightning flashing like a beacon in the darkness above him. But his effort fell short once more, and at last his body failed him. He began to sink for the final time.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed onto his hair and pulled, dragging him from the relative quiet of the sea into the crashing maelstrom of the storm. As his head broke water, he took deep, thankful breaths of the rain-chilled night air, only peripherally aware of his body bumping hard against the side of a lifeboat, or of the hand transferring its grip to his collar and beginning to lift him as more hands took hold of his sodden clothing and helped to pull him into the bottom of the boat. "Is he alive?" a voice asked, and then someone was bending over him, rainwater dripping from the tip of his nose and from the ends of the black hair plastered wetly to his head.

"I think so…Jim? Jim, can you hear me?"

He could hear all right, though the storm was very loud and somewhere nearby children were crying. Answering, however, was a different matter as he struggled to make sense of the chaos around him. His thoughts were fragmented, scattered, and he clung to the one bit of information that had penetrated his confusion: his name was Jim. The black-haired man studied him intently, concern plain on his face, then reached to gently touch the left side of Jim's head. The probing fingers hurt, and Jim made a small, involuntary sound of protest and raised an appallingly weak hand to push them away.

The other man winced in sympathy. "He really bashed you one, didn't he?" he said. "You've got a goose egg there above your ear. Why that blow didn't knock you out, I'll never know. Good thing it didn't, though—you'd be at the bottom of the ocean by now for sure."

The man kept talking, apparently trying to give Jim time to gather his wits. The wits in question remained stubbornly elusive, but he did seem to remember being hit. He'd been on a boat, a small boat—this one?—and a man had come at him through the darkness and the rain, swinging an oar with murderous intent. Not this man, this one who spoke to him so familiarly that they had to be friends, though Jim couldn't put a name to him. This man had been there, had shouted a warning, but the attack had been so unexpected and so quick that Jim had been in the water, fighting for his life, before he'd had time to react.

Suddenly he realized that the man had stopped talking and was looking at him worriedly. "Jim?" he said. "Jim, are you all right?"

Belatedly, Jim noticed that the little boat was crowded, and that he was taking up more than his share of room. Other men were clinging to the sides of the boat, their feet drawn back to accommodate him. He moved to sit up, and the man took hold of his arm and helped, but all at once the violent rocking of the boat was too much, and Jim felt nausea wash over him. The man, seeing his distress, hauled him up and draped him over the gunwale, holding him there while his outraged stomach returned the seawater he had swallowed back to the ocean where it belonged. His helpful companion settled him back into the bottom of the boat, bracing him with one hand while clinging to the side with the other.

Artie, Jim thought in a sudden stroke of clarity, unreasonably pleased with himself for having remembered. The man's name is Artie, and he's not just my friend, he's my partner, and we're…we're supposed to be doing something. Every time he tried to get a solid grip on a thought, it dodged away from him. He grimaced in frustration.

He had another flash of memory. He was on the deck of a ship, a larger ship that was listing badly to starboard. It was storming then, too, the wind whipping the waves into a froth that washed over the deck. Rain came down in torrents. Then the cry, "It's every man for himself!" rocketed around the ship, passed from man to man.

He grabbed one of the rushing sailors, demanding, "You're sure all the women and children are off?"

"I'm sure!" the sailor shouted, and began to unhook what Jim knew was the last remaining lifeboat. Artie appeared with more sailors, and they all fell to work on the ropes that held the boat. The ship was already tilted so severely that the lifeboat nearly touched the waves. Artie pulled on a canvas tarpaulin, moving it out of the way, and there were the children, two little girls and a smaller boy, huddling under the tarp and crying.

They were crying again—or still, Jim didn't know which. Artie looked over his shoulder, then turned back to Jim. "I'm going to see if I can do anything for those kids," he said. "Will you be all right?"

Jim nodded. Artie still looked worried, but he squeezed Jim's shoulder and moved away, making his way carefully among the knees of the men huddled miserably in the floor of the lifeboat, the tossing of the boat making it difficult to keep his balance. Jim heard his voice intermittently through the howl of the wind, comforting, soothing, almost hypnotic. "…parents…another lifeboat…just as worried about you…when the storm is over…find them…"

The sailor at his right shoulder spoke to him. "You all right, mate?" he asked, leaning close to keep his words from being whirled away by the wind. "You were in the water a long time. We thought sure you were done for."

Jim tried his voice for the first time since he'd been pulled from the water. His throat felt raw and sore. "Who hit me?" he asked.

"The fellow you and Mr. Gordon were after," the sailor said. "That counterfeiter, Murdoch."

Murdoch? Counterfeiter? Jim fought to think past the pain in his head. Oh yes. Secret Service. He and Artie were agents. On a mission. His head felt full of mush. Or maybe rocks. Mush would surely hurt less.

The sailor, apparently wise to the aftereffects of blows to the head, didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "Jack Burns," he said, sticking out the hand that wasn't keeping a firm grip on the boat.

Jim took it. "Jim…West," he returned, his name coming to him with sudden ease. "But I suppose you know that."

Burns grinned. "You could say so—I'm the bloke got you and Mr. Gordon aboard the Pegasus. We were full up, you see," he explained. "Not that I did you much of a favor, turns out." He turned his face to the sky. "Storm's letting up," he said. "Looks like something else will get a chance to kill us." Jim could hear him much more clearly as the wind died down and the rain diminished to sprinkles. "Do you know where we are?"

"Not really," Jim said, shaking his head, which was a mistake. Pain crashed from side to side inside his skull before settling down again to a throbbing ache. "Somewhere off the coast of Florida."

"That's right." Burns nodded and began to bail water from the bottom of the boat with his cupped hands. "Right smack in the Devil's Triangle."

"Superstition," Jim muttered reflexively.

"Maybe," Burns conceded. "Either way, we're in trouble. The current is carrying us away from the mainland. We've no oars—the only one we got away with went into the ocean with Murdoch—so we have to go where the current takes us. If we miss the Bahamas, there's an awful lot of open sea between here and anywhere."

Jim looked at Artie. He had left the children and was leaning over one of the men, his murmured words of comfort and encouragement audible now that the storm had ended. All the men seemed unusually subdued, sitting slumped in dispirited postures that suggested something beyond mere exhaustion. Even Burns had lapsed into a brooding silence. Jim leaned back against the gunwale. He was tired. He'd rest for just a minute and then he and Artie would figure out what to do.

The next thing he knew he was lying flat on his back in the six inches of water in the bottom of the boat and Artie was bending over him again.

"Did I mention that you have a very large lump on the side of your head?" he demanded as Jim opened his eyes.

Jim's head rested on somebody's foot and water sloshed randomly into and out of his ears in a confusion that echoed the muddle in his brain. "Somebody hit me," he said stupidly.

Concern and exasperation seemed to be warring for control of Artie's face. Exasperation won. "I thought we covered that," he said. "Murdoch whacked you over the head with an oar, and very nearly killed you. Do you suppose you could just sit still until you feel a little better?"

"No, Artie," Jim said, struggling with the words. "Just now, somebody else hit me."

"Oh, come on, Jim," Artie said. "Why would anybody—"

Suddenly the boat erupted into chaos. Men shouted in anger and began to struggle as though determined to kill each other. Knives flashed in the moonlight. One of the children screamed as the boat rocked violently. A sailor smashed into Artie's back, sending him headlong over the side of the boat. Jim got to his knees just as another seaman picked up the little boy and hurled him, wailing, in Jim's direction. Jim snatched the child from the air and threw himself backward over the gunwale, narrowly avoiding a slashing knife.

He went down and down, clutching the boy desperately to his chest. Finally he managed to right himself and stroke, one-armed, for the surface. Even burdened by the boy, he found the task considerably easier without the impediments of a raging storm and near-unconsciousness. Almost there, something struck him in the face and he pulled to one side just in time to avoid cracking his abused head on a floating ten-foot section of the Pegasus's mast. As he broke into the air, gasping, he saw Artie, one arm draped over the other end of the mast and looking very relieved to see him—just about as relieved as Jim was to see Artie and the two little girls clinging to his back.

"You got him!" Artie cried as the boy's head also broke the surface.

"Jacob!" one of the girls squealed, and all three children began to cry.

Jim took hold of the tangle of ropes which trailed from the broken mast, one of which, he realized, had been what hit him as he surfaced, pulled himself closer, and put his free arm over the mast.

Artie looked as though he couldn't decide whether to laugh or join in the crying.

Jim didn't feel much like laughing. "What happened back there?" he asked.

"You've got me," Artie replied. Their log seemed to be caught in a different current than the one that held the lifeboat; the sounds of battle could still be heard, but were growing fainter as they drifted apart. "One minute I thought they were all going to sleep, and the next they'd gone crazy instead."

An image of Loveless's dining room, awash with blood and strewn with bodies after his cold-blooded demonstration of a hallucinogenic potion, popped into Jim's head. He shuddered away from the thought, grateful that at least the mad little doctor couldn't possibly be involved this time.

"Are any of them in the water?"

Artie looked around in alarm. "Oh, I hope not. Haven't seen any."

Jim closed his eyes and rested his head on the arm holding the beam, his other arm still tight around the boy—Jacob, he guessed his name was—and wished the kids would stop crying.

"You all right?" Artie said.

"Sure."

Artie began quieting the children, his voice soothing and calm, and Jim let himself drift. His head hurt. Mustn't go to sleep and lose his grip on Jacob, he told himself; he'd only rest. The quiet rhythm—point, counterpoint—of Artie's deep-voiced questions and the girls' piping replies lulled him. He forced his eyes open and listened.

They were twins, of course—anybody could see that. They were eight years old, and their brother was four. Their names were Amy and Abigail. Amy was the one with the blue hair ribbon, but oh, no, her ribbon was gone, lost in the water. The child's quavering voice threatened more tears, but Artie's mock horror that now he'd never be able to tell the girls apart averted them. Soon he had them giggling, even the little boy….

"Jim!" Artie said sharply. Jim woke with a start. How could he have gone to sleep? Fortunately, Jacob was now clinging to him, his little arms and legs wrapped monkey-like around Jim's body, but Jim had begun to slip away from the mast.

"I think the kids could sit up on top of this thing, don't you?" Artie said.

"Good idea," Jim agreed. "Jacob," he said, patting the mast, "Want to sit up here, like riding a pony?"

Jacob nodded his agreement, and Artie reached to help boost the boy onto the beam. "You girls get up here, too," he said, and braced himself so that they could climb over his back and onto the mast.

"Mama says we have to ride sidesaddle now," Abigail said.

"Sure you do," Artie said, "but that's not safe right now, not without saddles, so you're going to have to pull up your skirts and sit astride like you did when you were little. You watch each other now, and if any of you starts to fall, you sing out so I can catch you."

"Yes, Mr. Gordon," the children chorused.

Artie pulled himself along the mast to Jim's side. "You sure you're all right?" he said quietly.

"A little tired."

"More like a lot concussed. Let me look at your head."

"If it'll make you happy."

Bracing himself with an elbow on the mast, Artie reached for Jim's head with both hands.

"Ow!" Jim said, jerking his head away, then hoping Artie couldn't see how much the movement hurt. "You said look, not touch."

"Shut up and hold still."

Jim sighed and submitted to his partner's examination. "Feel better now?"

"Marginally. You have a pretty spectacular lump, but I don't think your skull is actually broken."

Jim suppressed a sudden urge to chant nyah, nyah, nyah like a schoolboy. In truth, his head hurt so much it could have been fractured for all he knew; he was relieved to hear that, in his partner's more-or-less-informed opinion, it wasn't. Not that Artie needed to know that.

"I'll be all right," he said. You'd better get on the other side and help me keep this log from rolling, or these kids will be in the water again."

"Yeah."

Artie ducked under the water and popped up again on the other side of the mast. "That's the trouble with sea bathing," he declared, smoothing his wet hair back with one hand. "You start itching as soon as you start drying."

"You had to bring that up," Jim said, his nose itching immediately. "Don't get these kids started."

"They can't hear me." Indeed, the children were happily engaged in riding their pretend horse, laughing and tugging on the ropes they had dragged up out of the water. A full moon cast its cool light over them, nearly as bright as day.

They were silent for a few minutes, hanging on to the mast, drifting easily with the current, the sounds of the children's play washing over them…

Artie's hand gripped Jim's wrist, waking him from a half-sleep. "Jim."

"Sorry." Jim pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to remember the symptoms of concussion. Headache, of course. Dizziness, nausea. He could live with all that. Of more concern was his inability to stay awake and the gaping hole in his memory, one it was time he admitted to his partner. "Artie," he said, gesturing toward the children, "what's their family name?"

Artie must have been very tired; he gazed at Jim for a full two seconds before responding. "How much time have you lost?" he asked.

Jim looked at Jacob, still merrily sawing on his reins. "I remember boarding the ship. After that, just bits and pieces."

"A week, then," Artie said.

"If you say so."

"That's…..inconvenient."

"Yeah. Especially since I have a feeling I have something important to tell you."

"You probably do. Last time I talked to you, you were about to do a little genteel breaking and entering. The captain's cabin."

"The captain? He was involved in the counterfeiting?"

"You seemed to think so."

The mast suddenly began to roll, and Artie put a shoulder into steadying it. "Easy there, kids," he cautioned. "This horse will buck you off."

Jacob laughed. "Buck, horsie, buck!" he sang, kicking his heels.

Artie held up a hand to ward off the splashing water. "I'm glad somebody's having a good time," he said.

"You're not? Warm water, pretty girls, nothing to do—sounds like the vacation you've been wanting."

Artie snorted. "Maybe in the travel brochure."

They lapsed once more into silence. The twins began to quarrel. Jim thought he should distract them somehow, if only he could find the energy.

"Whitcomb," Artie said suddenly.

Jim had been drifting off again. It took him a moment to understand that Artie was answering his earlier question. "Did we meet their parents?"

"You did. Of course, lowly crewmen don't associate with ladies and gentlemen."

This was probably the latest version of Artie's ongoing complaint about always getting the less-desirable undercover role, but Jim let it pass—he was so tired that even a round of their usual banter on the subject held no appeal. "Did they get off the ship?"

"I don't know. There was so much confusion after the explosion, and of course I wasn't near the passenger cabins; I was in the hold trying to figure out what had happened."

"Did you? Figure it out?"

Artie combed his fingers through his hair and sighed. "Jim, I know just about as much as you do. And I can remember the last week."

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The sun rose. The children, who had kept going all night on fear and excitement, began to find it impossible to stay awake. Artie rescued each of the girls in turn as she nodded off and fell into the water; Jim managed to settle Jacob full-length on the mast and hold him there as he slept.

Then Artie began to insist that he could smell land. The girls were skeptical. "People smell the sea, not the land," Abigail said.

"Oh, anybody can smell the sea," Artie said. "I have a special nose. I can smell land."

Amy sniffed the air. "I don't smell anything."

"Of course you don't. I'm telling you—you have to have a special nose, like mine."

"There's no such thing," Abigail scoffed.

Artie struggled gamely on for a while, but finally gave up with a grin. "You're too smart for me," he conceded. "Look. Look up." He pointed to the sky, where gray-white birds wheeled overhead. "Seagulls, see? You see them flying over the ocean all the time, but they really live on land. That's how I knew there was an island nearby. If you sit up really tall, you can see it."

Jim looked up. Had he been asleep? He hadn't known the birds were there. "How far?" he asked.

"Not more than a mile or two." Artie looked both excited and worried. "This is it, Jim. The current may not take us straight in; we might have to swim for it. Do you think we could rig harnesses for us and tow this thing behind us?"

"Don't know why not," Jim said.

"That's the spirit," Artie said. He produced a knife from somewhere and began to cut lengths of rope. Soon they had two harnesses knotted together. They tied the children loosely to the mast, so they wouldn't drift away if they fell off.

In the end, it was easier than they had any right to expect. The current carried them to within a hundred yards of a nice, level beach. Jim and Artie pulled the broken mast with its juvenile passengers up onto the white sand, undid the ropes binding them all together, and sank gratefully onto the solid ground. The girls sat silently, too exhausted to get up. Jacob bounced to his feet, but found his legs wobbly and undependable.

"You have to get your land legs back," Artie advised the boy. "Rest for a few minutes and you'll be all right." Jacob had been inactive for longer than a little boy can tolerate, however, and in a minute was back up, shaky legs notwithstanding, poking at the ground with a stick a few yards away. "Stay where I can see you," Artie called. He lay back in the sand. "I think I could sleep for a week," he said to Jim, "but I'd better take a look around—see if we have any company, human or otherwise. Maybe I can find some fresh water."

"I'll do it," Jim offered.

Artie sat up. "No, I'll go. Somebody needs to stay with these girls; they'll be asleep in two shakes." He stood up, futilely brushing at the sand on his wet clothes.

"Artie, tell me about Murdoch."

"You don't remember him?"

"Still nothing after we boarded the ship."

Artie sat back down. "He was a passenger. You played cards with him the first two nights we were on board. All the money you won from him was real, but you said there was something about him that rang false, so I asked about him among the crew. Turned out, he pretty much lived aboard ship. Spent a lot of time with the crew. I got into his cabin one night and found a stash of counterfeit bills.

"We thought we had found our counterfeiter. But it had been too easy, and we figured he must have accomplices. We decided to wait, not to arrest him, until we could learn who else might be involved. The third night, he didn't make an appearance in the saloon. He had taken to his cabin, and neither of saw him onboard again." He paused. "None of this sounds familiar?"

"Sorry."

Artie shrugged. "You'll get it back. I'd feel a lot better if you could do it soon."

Me too, Jim thought. He said, "What else? Something about the captain?"

"You saw or heard something that made you suspect he was involved. We only had a little time and you didn't say what. You were going to have a look around his cabin the night the ship sank. I don't know if you did it."

"So what about Murdoch? He was on our lifeboat?"

Artie nodded. "Neither of us knew it until the moment he tried to brain you with that oar. He must have known that you suspected him; maybe he thought killing you would eliminate the threat."

"What happened to him?"

"He's dead."

"Are you sure?"

"Well…pretty sure. I was a little busy trying to save your life, but I think I saw one of the sailors shove a knife into him before they threw him overboard."

Jim closed his eyes for a moment as a particularly…uncomfortable…bolt of pain lanced through his head. "So you really don't know."

"No, but Jim, he went into the ocean in the middle of that storm."

"So did I."

"True, but you had me to pull you out. He's dead, Jim."

"I hope you're right."

"I hope so, too." He stood up again and turned slowly in a circle, then pointed inland. "Maybe any naps should be taken in that cave up there."

"Good idea." Jim got to his feet, swaying as a wave of lightheadedness hit him. "Have to get my land legs," he said as Artie reached out a steadying hand.

"Sure," Artie said. He studied Jim for a long moment, but turned away before Jim felt obliged to protest. "Come on, kids," he said. "We're going up to that cave."

The beach sloped gently upward for twenty yards, then gave way to a jumble of gray, lichen-covered boulders. An easy climb through the rocks brought them to the mouth of a shallow cave, fifteen feet wide and ten deep. Leafy ferns mostly covered the entrance, and Artie pulled up a few of the shallow-rooted plants and placed them strategically to further camouflage the cave. A sheer cliff rose up behind.

"Pretty easy place to defend," Jim commented.

"Nobody, if there is anybody, will even know you're up here."

"And if somebody does come along, I can beat them off with a stick."

Artie offered Jim his knife. "Maybe you'd better have this."

Jim had lost his jacket, with its hidden weapons cache, but he refused the knife. "You might need it," he said. "I'll be tucked up safe and cozy in this cave."

"Jim—"

Jim stopped him with a raised hand. "It's all right, Artie. It's better if you take this one." And, as much as he hated to admit that he could be at less than a hundred percent at any time, he knew it really was better. He was afraid he'd be doing well to stay awake to keep watch.

Artie nodded and stuck the knife in his belt. He turned to Amy and Abigail. "You girls lie down and sleep for a while," he said. "Mr. West will keep watch. Jacob and I will explore a little bit and then we'll be back." He took the boy by the hand and made his way back down to the beach, where he carefully brushed away all their tracks with a leafy branch. Then he and Jacob took to the rocks again and headed east.

The girls were soon asleep and Jim, in his endeavor not to join them in the arms of Morpheus, began to go over what he could remember about the case. Their assignment, for once, actually fell within the generally-recognized purview of the Secret Service. Counterfeit money had been turning up in impossible-to-miss quantities in ports all along the southeastern seaboard. Six agents sent in to determine its source had ended up dead. Jim thought ruefully of how close he had come to being the seventh.

"It's a dangerous business, boys," President Grant had told them. "Two of our best Florida men went in undercover and were dead within twenty-four hours. Whoever's behind this is both smart and ruthless. Six men lost, and all we have is the message Martinelli managed to get out before he was killed." He handed Jim a scrap of paper with one word scrawled across it: Pegasus.

Knowing only that Martinelli had believed that the merchant ship Pegasus, an aging wooden sailing vessel which carried passengers and freight along the southeastern coast, was somehow involved, Jim and Artie had begun their investigation. Jack Burns, an ex-Navy man now working as a seaman on the Pegasus, had got them aboard. And there Jim's memory stopped. Try as he might, he could recall nothing after they boarded the ship, Artie as a member of the crew, and Jim as a passenger—a city dandy given to drinking and gambling.

He scratched the back of his hand, where salt had dried into an irritating itch. He hoped Artie had found a source of fresh water. The frequent rains in this part of the world would provide enough water to insure their survival, but a spring or a river would be easier, and might provide freshwater fish and other edibles. He glanced over at his sleeping charges. They would be hungry as well as thirsty when they awoke. Maybe Artie would find food and water both.

Jim got up and peered through the screen of ferns at the beach and to the limits of his field of vision to the east and west. There was no sign of human or animal life. He settled back against the wall of the cave. Time or inactivity seemed to be helping his head—the bass drum that had been pounding inside his skull was now no bigger than a tom-tom.

Artie said that Jim had intended to explore the captain's cabin shortly before the ship foundered. He must have learned something that led him to suspect the captain's involvement in the counterfeiting—he wished he could remember what. And why had the ship gone down, anyway? There had been an explosion, but had it been an accident, or had somebody destroyed the ship on purpose—and if they had, why? And why during a storm? Did it have anything to do with his and Artie's presence? He sighed. There were too many questions and not nearly enough answers.

Jim stood and went to the cave entrance again. This time he saw Artie and Jacob, walking along the beach, deep in conversation. Artie looked up and waved. Jim left the girls sleeping in the cave and picked his way down the rocks to the sand.

Jim raised his eyebrows as he got a good look at Jacob. The boy wore only his knee pants—with the bottom buttons undone—and the juice of some red berry stained his face and streaked his chest.

Artie laughed. "All little boys are savages at heart; you know that, Jim. I had to hold him down to get that much on him."

Artie himself looked much cleaner than he had when he left; his clothes were dry and free of the bits of seaweed and other detritus that had clung to them. His shoes and Jacob's hung from one shoulder by their laces and his pant legs were rolled up to mid calf, exposing sandy feet. He carried a bundled bit of cloth full of the berries.

Artie held out the bundle, which Jim now saw was the boy's missing shirt. "They're not much, but they're edible."

Jim took the proffered food and sat down on the rocks. Jacob began drawing lines in the sand with a stick. Artie checked to see that the child was occupied and then sat beside Jim. "I take it you found a spring?" Jim said, tasting the berries, which were, as Artie said, edible, but not much more.

Artie nodded. "About the middle of the island. There's a good fall of fresh water and a small pool, big enough to bathe in. No fish, though. No sign of people, past or present. It's a small island—maybe half a mile each way. Beach all the way around except on the east end, where there's a steep cliff. Lots of rocks, palm trees, and ferns—your typical tropical paradise."

"Well, we _were_ overdue for leave."

"No offense, James, but this isn't exactly the company I had in mind for my holiday, should I ever get one."

"Female, but fifteen or twenty years older than the two sleeping upstairs?" Jim suggested.

"Exactly."

"Where do you think we are?"

"I'm guessing one of the Bahamas. There should be ships passing."

"That's what I figure, too," he said, although how they would convince a passing ship to stop for them, he didn't know. The signal fire on the beach had been used so many times by pirates that few captains would take the risk.

Artie took a handful of the berries. "I'm sorry I couldn't bring water back with me. Do you feel up to going up there? The easiest way is to go about a hundred yards west and then straight up."

Jim set the berries down and stood. Artie held out the knife. Jim felt naked without a weapon, but he didn't want to take the knife—Artie had the children to protect, if any protecting became necessary. "No, you keep it." He turned to go.

Artie got to his feet. "Wait a minute. Let me see your eyes."

Jim stood patiently as, from a distance of six inches, brown eyes bored into his.

"Remember anything yet?"

"There was a girl named Charlotte…"

Artie grinned and gave him a playful pat on the cheek. "You'll be fine," he said.

"That's what I told you." Jim waved at Jacob and headed west.

It was a climb to the spring, and Jim's head was pounding again when he got there. He rested for a few minutes, and the pounding subsided. He shucked his clothes and stepped into the pool, nearly yelping at the cold. He reminded himself that the water was coming out of the ground at ground temperature, which couldn't be as much as seventy degrees. He quickly scrubbed his clothes, then himself, and climbed out. He sat on a boulder until he was dry, enjoying the unaccustomed sensation of the warm sun and gentle breeze touching his skin. Then he spread his clothes on the bushes to dry and set out to explore a little.

He found a hole in the rocks above the spring, about three feet tall and half as wide. Scuff marks betrayed the fact that someone had been there, and very recently. There was a smear of red juice. Artie and Jacob. He peered into the hole, wishing for a torch. He couldn't see much, but somehow the space in front of him felt large. He tossed in a pebble. Sounded big, too. It might be a better shelter than the one they had. He shredded a bit of bark and gathered some sticks, then sat on his heels and began to make fire.

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Artie and the children were gathered around a game board scratched into the sand, playing something with rocks and sticks, when Jim got back. Artie looked up. "Find the cave?" he asked.

"Why didn't you go in?"

"Jacob didn't have the patience for fire-making. Besides, you're better at it than I am. How big is it?"

"Good sized. Two rooms. Room for all of us to sleep."

Artie stood. "I'm for that. Let's go on up there—the girls are thirsty."

"You go ahead. If you'll let me have that knife, I think I can catch us some supper."

Artie handed over the knife. "Good idea."

Jacob jumped to his feet. "I want to help!" he said.

"Fine with me," Jim said.

Jim watched as Artie took the girls by the hand and set off down the beach. "Come on, Jacob," he said. "Let's go hunting."

------------------------------

Later, as the long day drew to a close, Artie settled the children, clean, dry, and fed, onto a bed of dry grasses in the second room of the new cave. Jim sat in the larger first room, poking the fire and watching its smoke rise toward the hole in the ceiling ten feet above. He listened to the domestic sounds from the other room, smiling as Jacob demanded—and got—a lullaby. He debated with himself the necessity of keeping a watch during the night. He needed sleep badly, and he knew Artie was just as tired—he had admitted that the previous night's sleep hadn't been the first he'd missed lately. There was no opening from the children's room except the one into this room—he remembered being a small, adventurous boy himself and had checked very carefully—so the children would be safe. Maybe they could all sleep this night. Maybe it would be all right.

He gave himself a mental kick. He was too experienced to delude himself this way. In a strange place, with possible hostiles about, you always posted a watch. He stirred up the fire and wished for something to prop his eyelids open.

Silence fell in the other room. Jim waited, half dozing, for Artie to come back. Perhaps he had sung himself to sleep. Jim smiled to himself at the thought. Finally, he heard his partner slip through the opening between the rooms. "Nice singing," he said.

There was no answer. Jim turned. Artie stood against the wall, a two-foot-long branch in his hand. The flickering light of the fire made it difficult to read his expression. "Artie?" Jim said. "What are you doing?" Still no answer.

"Artie?" Jim said again. "What's going on?"

With a sudden, startling violence, Artie hurled the branch into the fire. "Leave me alone," he snarled, and scrambled out of the cave.

Jim followed him. As he came through the opening and straightened, Artie seized him by the shirt front and slammed his back against the rock wall. His face was set and hard, his eyes cold, and Jim was forcefully reminded that, while normally the most equable of men, with sufficient provocation his partner could be merciless.

Jim held his hands wide. "Artie, take it easy," he said.

"I said leave me alone," Artie hissed, and let him go. He turned and walked away.

Jim grabbed him. Artie whirled and shoved him, hard. The back of Jim's head hit the rock face and for a moment all he could see was stars. When the stars cleared, Artie had him fixed in a murderous glare, one hand planted firmly against his chest and the other clutching a fist-sized rock. Before Jim could react, Artie raised the rock and smashed it into the wall beside Jim's head. Rock splinters peppered his cheek.

"Artie!" he cried in frustration. "What's the matter with you?" And then it hit him. Artie had been a member of the ship's crew. He had lived with them, eaten with them. Whatever had caused them to attack one another on the lifeboat must now be affecting him.

Jim took hold of Artie's shirt with both hands. "Artie, listen to me," he said. "You've been drugged or something. Let me—"

Artie's forearm went across Jim's throat, cutting off his words and most of his air. His weight pressed Jim into the rock, and Jim pushed futilely at the asphyxiating arm, all of his fighting skill useless against an opponent he was loath to injure.

The rage on Artie's face was overlaid with desperation. "Please, Jim, let me go!" he said hoarsely and stumbled off into the gathering darkness.

Jim let him go. He hadn't much choice—he couldn't risk leaving the children unguarded.

------------------------------

Hours later, he heard approaching footsteps. "It's me," Artie called. "I'm coming in. Don't shoot me."

Considering that there wasn't so much as a blunderbuss anywhere on the island, Jim thought _that_ was a safe bet. "I promise not to shoot you, Artie," he said.

Artie slid through the cave opening in a shower of small rocks and dirt and sat down next to the fire opposite Jim.

They looked at each other. "Are you all right?" they said simultaneously.

"Did I hurt you?" Artie said.

"Not on your best day, Artie; not without help."

Artie didn't smile.

"Really, I'm fine."

Artie looked troubled. "Part of me wanted to kill you," he said.

"Part of you didn't. That part was stronger," Jim countered. "Are you over it now?" he asked, though he knew the answer: if Artie'd had any doubts at all on that score, he wouldn't have come back to the cave.

"I think I slept it off."

Sleep. Jim felt a pang of longing. "Good. Now stand watch so I can get some."

"What if I try to kill you again?"

Jim knew one thing: demented, drugged, or drunk, if Artie had really been trying to kill him, he'd be dead now. And he wasn't dead; he was just very, very tired.

"You won't."

"How do you know? I might go crazy again."

"Stop worrying and let me get some sleep."

"Fine, go to sleep. But if you wake up dead, remember I tried to warn you."

"I won't."

"You won't wake up dead, or you won't remember?"

"Artie, _please._"

"All right. But, just to be sure, maybe you should keep this." He produced their one knife and extended it, handle first, toward Jim.

Jim saw the glint of mischief in his partner's eyes, thought about Artie having the knife all the time he was supposedly trying to kill him, and nearly laughed. "Very funny, Artie," he said. "I'm glad to see you're back in your usual fine form. I'm going to sleep now."

"Good night, Jim."

------------------------------

As tired as he was, his sleep was fitful, full of disturbing dreams. He woke up with the feeling he hadn't been asleep long. Artie still sat on the other side of the fire, carving on a piece of wood.

"What are you making?"

"A comb for the girls' hair."

"They'll like that."

"Mm."

Jim watched for a while as the shavings fell in a mesmerizing shower onto his partner's shoes.

"Artie," he said, "what if Murdoch wasn't trying to kill me?"

Artie looked up, surprised. "He hit you over the head with an oar! What do you think he was trying to do, ask you to dance?"

"I mean, what if he wasn't trying to kill me specifically—what if he was affected by the same thing the crew was, only earlier, just like you were later?"

Artie considered it. "That's an unpleasant thought. If it wasn't confined to the crew, then there could be four lifeboats full of crazy people out there."

"No, they'd be over it by now." Jim glanced toward the room where the Whitcomb children lay sleeping. "If they didn't all kill each other." He saw again a bloody room and twenty bodies.

As though reading his mind, Artie said, "At least Dr. Loveless can't be involved this time."

It was true that Loveless's boat had sunk in a lake so deep Jim couldn't find the bottom. It was also true that no bodies had ever surfaced.

"I hope not," Jim said.

"Go back to sleep."

------------------------------

He woke again. It was still dark. Artie now seemed to be weaving a basket.

"The rum," Artie said.

"What?"

"There must have been something in the rum."

Of course. The children were fine. He himself felt no symptoms of incipient insanity. Few passengers drank rum, but the crew certainly had, and Artie with them, although given how Artie felt about that particular beverage, he would have drunk as little as he thought he could get away with.

"What about Murdoch?" Jim said.

Artie grimaced. "He seemed to like the stuff, Lord knows why."

"We know he was involved in the counterfeiting. Are the two things not connected?"

"I wish I knew."

Jim went back to his dreams. When the sunlight woke him, he had his lost week back.

"Artie," he said, but Artie was gone. The fire had burned down to coals, and he sat up and put a stick of wood on it. It was too much trouble to make fire from scratch—he wanted to keep this one going. He went to the cave entrance and looked out. Artie was coming toward the cave, holding something in his hands. He looked upset.

Seeing Jim, Artie stopped and said, "Come here."

Jim pulled himself through the entrance hole and went to where Artie stood waiting.

"What's wrong?" he said.

Artie held out his hands. In them was a pair of printing plates, for ten-dollar bills. "I found these behind some rocks at the edge of the spring," he said, then continued in a rush of words. "The girls wanted to bathe, and I left them alone for a while. I made them sing the whole time, told them I'd think there was something wrong and come back if I couldn't hear two voices, never mind whether they were decent or not…nobody else was there, Jim—I would have heard."

"How do you know somebody didn't put them there later?"

Artie shook his head. "I don't believe there's anybody else here." He held up a red hair ribbon. "And the plates were tied together with this."

"So one or both of the girls had these when they left the ship. Surely you don't think they were involved in the counterfeiting?"

"Of course not—they're eight years old!" Artie said quickly, but he looked doubtful and added, "But they got them somehow, and they hid them from us. You have to admit, that's a little suspicious. We're government agents, for heaven's sake."

"Do they know that?"

"Of course—" He broke off and laughed ruefully. "I can't believe I'm starting to suspect little girls of being part of a counterfeiting operation," he said. "As a matter of fact, I did tell them that we work for the President. But I doubt they even know what these plates _are_. I'm getting desperate, Jim; you have to get that lost week back."

"I have."

"It's bad enough that we're going to be stuck on this island for God knows how long and probably starve to death. If I can't at least figure out what happened and why, I'm going to…what did you say?"

"I said I remember."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

"Well, why didn't you say so? What did you find in the captain's cabin? Were there more people involved or not? What about that Burns fellow? I never did quite trust him—"

Jim held up his hands to stop the torrent of questions. "Artie," he said.

"What?"

Jim nodded toward the cave, where a blonde head had appeared in the opening.

"Abigail!" Artie called. "I need to talk to you."

"I'm Amy," the little girl said, and ducked back into the cave.

Artie turned back to Jim. "She's Abigail."

"Don't look at me—I can't tell them apart without the ribbon."

"Well, I can, and that was Abigail. I'm beginning to think those two are not the innocent little girls they appear to be."

"Maybe they're thirty-year-old midgets."

Artie grinned. "I wouldn't go that far. They know something, though, and I'm going to find out what."

He started for the cave. "Hey!" Jim called. "Don't you want to know what I found in the captain's cabin?"

Artie didn't even look back. "Of course I do," he said, "but first I want to get to the bottom of this." He waved the printing plates over his head.

So much for being desperate for Jim's information. Well, there was no hurry; chances were, none of them were going anywhere for quite a while. And, as Artie certainly knew, they were more likely to perish of boredom than starvation—there were crabs, lizards, coconut palms and, of course, fish. No one would go hungry if Jim had anything to say about it. He went to the spring for a drink of water, then returned to the cave, gathering a few sticks of wood as he walked.

The scene inside bore no resemblance to any interrogation Jim had ever seen. Someone had added wood to the fire and it blazed merrily, a comforting presence to humans everywhere, even when, as now, the weather did not demand it. Artie sat cross-legged beside it, Jacob in his lap and a girl enclosed in the circle of each arm. He was speaking, his voice a gentle murmur, but broke off as Jim approached. He and Jacob looked up; the girls kept their faces buried in Artie's shirt.

"I need the knife," Jim whispered, reluctant to spoil whatever confession-inducing atmosphere Artie was creating. "I thought I'd find some breakfast."

Artie nodded and indicated, without speaking, that Jim should take Jacob with him.

Jacob apparently had the same idea; he stood up and reached for Jim. He picked up both knife and boy and crawled outside.

------------------------------

There were footprints on the beach, footprints made since the tide went out that morning, stretching as far as Jim could see in either direction along the shore. The person who made them had been staggering as though drunk or badly injured.

Someone else was on the island! He had to warn Artie. He also had to find whoever made these tracks. He could send Jacob to tell the others, but what if there was more than the one person here? What if they were even now making their way toward the tell-tale smoke issuing from the top of the cave? He could be sending the child, not toward safety, but straight into the arms of danger. Wait. He pulled himself up short. Why was he assuming that people meant enemies? Maybe they were merely other survivors of the shipwreck. He tried to make himself believe it, with little success.

He needed to follow the footprints. Artie had to be warned. He'd have to risk sending Jacob to the cave.

Jim knelt in the sand to get at eye level with the boy. "Jacob," he said, "can you find your way back to the cave?"

Jacob nodded solemnly.

"Good. I want you to go back, as fast and as quietly as you can, and tell Mr. Gordon that someone has been on the beach this morning. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Mr. West."

Jim put his hands on the boy's shoulders and turned him to face toward the cave. "Hurry," he said.

He watched Jacob's scrambling progress for a moment, then turned back to the footprints. He considered keeping to the rocks to avoid leaving tracks of his own, but decided speed was more important than stealth and took off at a trot along a path parallel to the prints. He began to see drops of blood, then splashes, then gouts; he was therefore not surprised to find the footprint-maker sprawled motionless in the sand a hundred yards past the beach's first curve. He turned the body over and felt for a pulse. Nothing. The man was dressed as a sailor, but Jim didn't recognize him. There was a dreadful knife wound in his belly; the wonder was that he'd been able to walk at all. Presumably, he was trying to escape his attackers, but there'd been no one following him—they must have gone the other way.

Jim leaped to his feet and ran, as fast as the deep sand would allow, back the way he had come. He stopped at the spot where he and Jacob had encountered the footprints and looked up toward the cave. No smoke—Artie had extinguished the fire. He hoped to God that meant Jacob had arrived safely with his message. A little further on he found the boat, a ship's tender, not the lifeboat he realized he had been expecting. Surely that meant there was a ship. He took time for a glance, but fog over the water obscured his view.

Two sets of footprints led away from the boat in the opposite direction from the dead man's. Where were these men going? Had they seen the smoke and gone looking for a place to climb up to it, or were they headed somewhere else entirely? Indecision paralyzed him for a moment. Should he follow the tracks, or go straight to the cave and bolster Artie's defenses with their only real weapon, the knife? No, he decided, if Jacob was there, and he had to believe he was, then Artie was already on guard. Artie could, if necessary, take care of himself and the children equipped with nothing but his wits. He would follow these men and find out what they were up to.

Thirty yards further on, the tracks veered toward the rocks that separated the beach from the higher, vegetation-covered terrain. Jim increased his pace, trying for quiet and invisible, but concentrating mainly on speed. He caught up with the two men a mere three yards from the cave. The nearer one was turned toward Jim; he recognized him as Richard Kettering, the captain of the Pegasus. They were looking about for the entrance, guns drawn and ready. They would see it any second. Jim didn't stop to think: with a shout, he launched himself at the captain, knocking him to the ground with a jolt that sent the gun flying out of his grasp. Kettering recovered quickly from the impact and his surprise, however, and grappled strongly with Jim. They tumbled, locked together, struggling for dominance, down the slope until they fetched up hard against a boulder, stunning the bigger man long enough for Jim to knock him out with a solid blow to the jaw.

Jim scrambled to his feet, expecting to have to deal with the other man, but he saw that Artie stood over his unconscious form, a short tree branch in his hand. "Is that all of them?" Artie called.

"All the live ones."

Artie threw down his branch and began to descend the slope. "Kettering," he said when he arrived. "I can't say I'm surprised. Wait 'til you see the other one."

Jim took hold of the captain by the shoulder of his coat and began to haul him up the slope; Artie got a similar grip and helped. They dropped him beside his unconscious confederate. Maybe Artie hadn't been surprised to see the captain, but Jim would bet he'd been astonished to recognize this man—he was the deaf-mute who'd been one of Doctor Loveless's henchmen the last time they'd tangled with the little doctor.

"I thought we killed him with a sharpened turkey bone and a slingshot made out of my suspenders," Artie said, sounding aggrieved. "Suspenders I never got back, by the way."

"You don't want them back," Jim said absently, his mind racing furiously to make sense of this new development. "Apparently they're defective."

"They worked fine for keeping my pants up," Artie retorted as he produced a length of rope and began to tie the deaf-mute's hands behind his back. "I think we'd better compare notes."

"In a minute," Jim said. He took more of Artie's rope and tied the captain securely, trussing his bound wrists and ankles together for good measure. He took two knives off of him and scouted around until he found his pistol.

"Feel better?" Artie mocked.

Jim refused to be baited. "Considerably," he said, noting that Artie already had the other gun and a knife tucked into his waistband. "You?"

"Oh, you know me," Artie said blithely, "Weapons are superfluous."

"Of course," Jim said, and Artie grinned as he lowered himself onto a reasonably comfortable-looking boulder. Jim followed suit.

"Jacob said there were people on the beach," Artie prompted.

"Footprints, at that point," Jim corrected, and recounted his discoveries along the shore.

"So you think there's a ship."

"Has to be."

"It happened to pick up their lifeboat?" Artie indicated the two unconscious men.

"Or it was a planned rendezvous."

"You think Kettering sank his own ship."

Jim nodded slowly. "Maybe."

"Why?"

Jim shrugged. "Maybe it was getting too hot. Maybe too many people knew that the Pegasus and the counterfeit money went together somehow."

"So you found evidence that Kettering was involved in the counterfeiting."

"Printing plates. Stacks of money." Jim paused. "And a formula, in Miguelito Loveless's handwriting."

Jim hadn't exactly expected Artie to be stunned by this revelation, but he was unprepared for his partner's knowing nod. "The drug that makes people crazy," Artie said. "I thought that might be what this is." He produced a small vial from behind the rock on which he sat. "I found it on the deaf-mute."

Jim's insides grew cold at the realization that it could just as well have been Kettering carrying the breakable glass vial as he and Jim battled their way down the slope.

"Yeah," Artie said, reading his mind again or, more likely, his momentarily unguarded expression. "I was really glad I only hit him on the head, and that he fell on his back."

There was a pause. Jim pondered the random nature of close calls.

"So," Artie said, "the deaf-mute got away with the formula and somehow hooked up with Kettering."

"Or already knew him."

Artie's rose to his feet in sudden anger—self-directed, Jim knew. "How could we have missed the fact that he wasn't among the bodies when that mess was over with?" he demanded.

"We slipped up," Jim said, his deliberately level tone a calming contrast to Artie's fury. "We had other things on our minds."

"That's no excuse!"

"No."

They were silent for a minute. Artie sat back down. "What did they want with the drug?" he said.

Jim had no idea. Presumably, following through with Dr. Loveless's plan to induce every man, woman and child on Earth to kill each other would seriously limit the growth potential of a counterfeiting operation. He shrugged and went back to a more-understandable subject, if the inner workings of eight-year-olds' heads could be called understandable. "How did the girls get the printing plates?"

"They found them—sneaked into a cabin when the steward had the door open. They said they were only going to look at them, but when a man saw them and started toward them, they took the plates and ran. That's why they were hiding under the tarp."

"Captain Kettering?"

"The deaf-mute, I think. The girls said he looked very angry and waved his arms a lot, but didn't speak."

"I never saw him on the ship."

"He must have spent all his time in his cabin—probably knew us immediately and figured we'd also recognize him."

"So they knew who we were from the beginning."

Artie shrugged. "Looks like it."

"Why do we bother with this undercover stuff at all?"

"Keeps life interesting."

A groan from their captive interrupted them. Kettering tried to roll onto his back, discovered that he couldn't, and groaned again before opening his eyes and glaring up at Jim and Artie.

Jim gazed speculatively at the captain for a moment, then took Artie by the sleeve and led him to a position out of earshot of both the cave and their prisoners. "You realize we're going to have to take that ship," he said.

Artie looked at him as though he'd just suggested they all sprout wings and fly home. "Are you out of your mind?" he demanded. "We can't take that ship! And even if, by some miracle, we did, the two of us couldn't sail it."

Okay, maybe not quite out of earshot, not at this volume. Jim pulled his partner a little further away.

"Artie, we can't just live here forever."

"I know that!" Artie snapped, and Jim saw that his objection went deeper than the token resistance he typically offered before agreeing to Jim's plan, whatever it was. Artie took a deep breath. "James my boy," he said, his words an obvious attempt to lighten the mood, his tone as serious as Jim had ever heard him, "the attempt is apt to get us killed, and then what will become of the Lilliputians? We can't leave them here alone."

"We won't leave them," Jim said, a plan forming in his mind as he spoke, a plan beautiful in its simplicity. And if it depended totally for its success on an impossibly difficult performance by his partner, what of that? Artie had yet to let him down. "There's already a crew aboard that ship, waiting for Kettering to come back. So now you're Kettering. You take the children and me back in the tender . You tell the crew that I killed the deaf-mute, but that you overpowered me and took me prisoner."

"Great jumping balls of Saint Elmo's fire, Jim!" Artie cried. "What do you think I am, a sorcerer? I can't just _become_ Kettering, with no makeup, no costume, nothing! And what do you imagine they're going to do to you, you murderer? Pat you on the head and say, 'boys will be boys'? No, they're going to kill you, that's what they're going to do—hang you from the yardarm or make you walk the plank! It's the most ludicrous scheme you've come up with up yet, and I haven't even mentioned: how are you going to keep the kids from giving the whole thing away?"

Artie turned away, breathing hard, his hands clenching into fists as though he very much wanted to hit somebody.

"Do you have a better idea?" Jim said mildly.

Artie whirled and glared at him. "That's the worst thing—no, I don't. And with an incredible amount of luck, starting with nobody on that ship really knowing Kettering very well, I could possibly pull it off. The children and I could get out of this alive. But, Jim, if I go in there and tell them that you just killed one of their own—no, wait, two of their own, can't forget the murdered man on the beach—they're not going to just hold you until we can get to a court for a fair trial; they're going to execute you on the spot."

"You're the captain; you'll stop them."

"You don't know that! The ship had a captain before it picked up Kettering; maybe he's in charge."

"We'll just have to hope he's not."

Artie ran his fingers through his hair, gazed toward the sea, where the fog still lay thick over the water, and scuffed at the dirt with the toe of his shoe. "You're certifiably insane, you know that?" he said, and Jim knew he had him.

Artie frowned at him for another minute; Jim wasn't sure whether he was still angry or only thinking. Finally, he said, "I hope you don't think I'm going to do this on an empty stomach. Weren't you going to get something for breakfast?"

Jim blinked at the sudden change of subject. "I was."

Artie looked up at the sky, then hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the cave, where three tow-headed children peeked out. "I told them they could come out when the sun made it to the top of that high rock. They'll be over here in a minute, and I'm sure they're starving. Take them with you." When Jim hesitated, he added impatiently, "I need time to get ready. We can't do anything until the fog lifts, anyway."

------------------------------

Children, it seemed, liked to catch fish. Or rather, they liked to play at catching fish, splashing around in the shallows and shrieking excitedly. Jim made them stop, afraid that their voices would carry to the unseen ship anchored offshore, not to mention scare off all the fish. Then they watched sullenly from the shore as Jim, with his makeshift spear (a knife tied to the end of a stick), caught all the fish that were taken that day.

When he had enough, he cleaned them there on the beach, to the children's fascination and repugnance. He talked as he worked, explaining the plan for getting off the island, doing his best to make it sound like a grand adventure, downplaying the danger except to impress upon them the absolute necessity that they not give away Artie's true identity. "Let's cook these up at the cave," he suggested, and led his once-again-cheerful band up into the rocks.

Artie was nowhere in sight. Their prisoners lay where he had left them, but the captain now wore Artie's clothes instead of his own and had a gag stuffed in his mouth. The deaf-mute was conscious, glaring balefully at him as he went by. Jim ducked into the cave. The fire pit still held a few glowing coals, despite Artie's hurried dousing, and Jim soon had a blaze going again. He skewered the fish onto green sticks, instructed the children to cook them over the fire the way he had shown them the night before, and went to find Artie.

He found him near the spring and, even to Jim, who was accustomed to his partner's masquerades, Artie's transformation was remarkable. It helped that he and Kettering were of a similar size and build, but after that the disguise was all Artie's skill. His hair, usually combed back, now hung over his forehead, and a red-soaked bandage, so realistic that Jim thought for an instant—until he saw a pile of the red berries on a nearby rock—that Artie was actually wounded, covered the left side of his face. The bandage didn't obscure Artie's features so much as distract the eye from noticing them, as did his gait, his movements, and the way he held his body—all Kettering. One would have thought he had spent weeks studying the man in preparation for this role, instead of observing him casually for a few days with nothing of the sort in mind.

Artie, however, was not happy. "This is never going to work," he growled. Jim wondered if he knew that he had used Kettering's voice.

"Artie, it's incredible," he said. "Unless Kettering's brother or his best friend is aboard that ship, no one will know you're not him."

Artie just scowled at him.

"Did you get anything out of him?" Jim said.

"Nothing but a lot of words unfit for children's ears."

Hence the gag. "We'll do it without his help, then. Come and eat."

They began to walk toward the cave. "What will we do with them?" Artie waved a hand toward their prisoners.

"We'll leave them a knife—out of reach—and a sharp stone to cut their ropes with. They'll get loose, but not until we're long gone. They'll survive until we can send somebody back to get them."

Artie nodded his approval. He looked a little relieved, as though he'd half expected that Jim planned to kill them. In truth, Jim had considered it. He knew it would be the safest thing to do, but he didn't quite have the stomach for it.

"What about the one on the beach?"

"No time, Artie. The fog is starting to lift." Another landing party could arrive at any time.

Bowing to necessity, Artie let it go and said, "You told the children the plan?"

"Yes. It's an adventure; they're excited. You're going to scare them, though."

"I think that's just as well—it'll keep them off balance. On one level, they'll know I'm me, but on another, they'll suspect I'm not. It might help keep them from giving us away."

The odor of scorched fish reached them as they arrived at the cave. Jim bent to go inside, but Artie stopped him with a hand on his arm. "I'll stay out here," he said, his voice pitched low enough not to carry into the cave.

"All right." Jim understood Artie's need to stay in character, saw also his regret that he must frighten the children in order to keep them safe and his desire to put it off as long as possible.

"Make sure everybody eats—you, too. I don't know how much I'll be able to…intercede for you, once we're on the ship."

"What about you?"

"Leave me something inside. I'm going to get our prisoners' escape set up and bury that vial of poison, and then I'll be back."

"The scientists decided it was safe to burn the original supply."

"In an incinerator, under controlled conditions. I'm not willing to risk it here. I'll hide it—bury it so it won't get accidentally broken. Grant will send a Navy ship to pick up Kettering and the deaf-mute. They can recover the vial."

Jim gave a mental shrug; it didn't matter. "Okay."

"You'd better give me your weapons now. When you're done eating, take the kids down to the boat. From now on, try to think of me as Kettering. Let the children be afraid of me; let them believe I'm really him. Comfort them if you can, but not by…destroying the illusion."

Jim handed over his gun and knives, watched as Artie tucked them into his own belt.

"Artie," he said, "this is going to work."

"Sure, Jim," Artie agreed mechanically, his eyes bleak.

"Artie," Jim said again, but his friend was already drawing away from him, already becoming somebody else as he turned and walked away. Kettering's walk.

Jim went into the cave.

------------------------------

Jacob was the first to see Artie approaching as they waited beside the boat. "Look, Amy!" he said to the sister nearest to him. "It's the captain."

"No, silly," Amy said, but she sounded unsure. "The captain's tied up, remember? It's only Mr. Gordon. Isn't that right, Mr. West?"

"Sure looks like Captain Kettering," Jim said, which was no less than the truth: at this distance, nobody could have determined that the figure climbing down the rocks wasn't Kettering. All of the children gaped at him in alarm and he felt about two inches tall. Better to terrify them than to get them killed, he told himself fiercely and added, feigning uneasiness, "We'd better get in the boat."

The children scrambled into the tender, shocked into silent obedience. Jim put a foot into the boat and waited there, off balance, for the second it took for Artie to reach him. He let Artie throw him to the ground, pull his arms roughly behind his back and tie his wrists together, quelling with determined effort the instinct that urged him to fight, dammit, told him this might not really be Artie, might be Kettering himself. Artie hauled him to his feet with a gruff, "Get in the boat." Jim pulled at the ropes, testing them. Artie had tied him as though he meant it—no trick knots, no leaving slack sufficient for a later, laborious escape.

He got in the boat. Artie climbed in past him and sat down facing him, then, wordlessly, unshipped the oars and began to row.

The children huddled at Jim's feet, shivering in terror. Jim tried to reassure them. "It's all right," he said. "He's not going to hurt us; he's only taking us prisoner." He bit off the "remember?" that wanted to tag along at the end of the sentence; mustn't remind them of the game, not now, not while they still had to be convincingly afraid. The shivering subsided a bit; small hands attached themselves to his pant legs. All eyes stared at their captor, the brooding, menacing not-Artie who was, even to Jim's eyes, more Richard Kettering than Artemus Gordon.

"What are you looking at?" Artie demanded.

They proceeded in silence.

Jim was the first to sight the ship and the Tricolor flying high above it. "French flag," he said to Artie, whose back, of course, was to the ship. Artie's lips thinned briefly, the only reaction he displayed to the announcement of this unexpected development; he turned to look, then went back to his rowing.

Someone had been watching for them; as they drew near a hail rang out, in French, the sound of which Jim recognized, even if he didn't understand the words. Artie pulled in the oars, grabbed the rope that flew down to them, and answered.

Artie's French, Jim had on good authority, was excellent—indistinguishable by any but the most well-trained ear from that of a native Frenchman. What came out of his mouth now, however, was a misbegotten polyglot of French and German, with a few Spanish and what sounded like Italian words thrown in. What is he doing? Jim wondered, but the men aboard the ship seemed to find nothing strange about his speech. No alarms were raised; no one sounded in the least upset or suspicious. Apparently they had accepted that Artie was Kettering.

A rope ladder flopped over the side of the ship. Artie motioned for Jim to stand, cut the rope that bound his hands, and indicated that he should climb the ladder. He called something up to the men aboard ship, apparently a warning to restrain Jim, because two of them took hold of his arms and held him as Artie urged the children up the ladder and followed behind them. When they all stood on deck, Artie bound Jim's hands once more behind his back, only this time Jim recognized the intricate pattern of one of his trick knots, one that looked secure but that could be undone in a second if necessary. Did Artie's choice of knot mean that he expected Jim to soon have to fight for his life? He wished as much as he had ever wished for anything that he could understand what was being said.

The children clustered around Jim. The girls clutched his fingers behind his back; Jacob clung to his knees. "It's all right," Jim said to them, with no idea if he was telling the truth or not. "Don't be afraid."

The ship's captain (judging from his uniform) appeared. He and Artie talked, the captain in French, Artie in that bewildering jumble of languages that the captain seemed nonetheless able to understand. Jim heard his own name mentioned, as well as the words, "Secret Service." It wasn't hard to guess that Artie was relating the tale of Jim's supposed murder of the deaf-mute and the French sailor. Artie's tone was a trifle indignant, but not angry. The men gathered around, however, grew more and more agitated as the story progressed, muttering among themselves and casting murderous glances in Jim's direction.

The children's anxiety ratcheted up a notch. Jim reassured them again, hoping his voice did not reveal his own apprehension. He stood still, slouching a little, avoiding eye contact with any of the sailors, doing his best to appear non-threatening. It was a difficult thing for him but, as much as he hated to put his fate in somebody else's hands, even Artie's, he knew he had no choice—especially if this drama was going to be performed in a language he didn't speak. All he could do was try to stay out of Artie's way.

Artie stopped talking. The French captain said something to his men—it sounded like a question. There were angry replies, shouting all around. Artie took a possessive grip on Jim's upper arm and spoke heatedly to the captain. The captain shook his head and said, "_Non._"

There were more shouts from the men. Several of them closed in and wrenched him out of Artie's grasp. Somebody clouted him on the ear, adding a ringing in his head to the cacophony that engulfed him. Hands pulled him into the center of the furious mob. More hands shoved and struck him, knocking him this way and that, from the clutches of one yelling sailor to the next until, dazed and bleeding, he could barely stand. Through it all he heard Artie's voice—shouting and angry but—incredibly—never straying from the patois that evidently constituted Kettering's French.

Then the shoving stopped. The sailors pressed in around him, holding him upright. Rough hemp scraped his neck as a makeshift noose was pulled over his head.

Artie's voice paused for a moment, then resumed with renewed vigor—impassioned, cajoling, persuasive. He sounded like nothing so much as a street-corner huckster; his meaning clear even though Jim couldn't understand the words: he was trying to sell the captain on something.

The crowd backed away, leaving him standing in the center of a cleared circle. Artie stood to his right, not looking at him, his attention directed toward the French captain, still talking earnestly. The children huddled together a few feet beyond Artie, held fast in the grip of a burly man in the white uniform of a cook. When they caught sight of Jim, they began to cry hysterically, screaming his name. Why didn't the cook take them below? They shouldn't have to watch this. Some of the sailors shifted uncomfortably. Others surged forward again, their voices an angry buzz, like Gallic hornets defending their nest.

The rope tightened, pulling him to his toes. The children fell silent. He couldn't see them; he hoped somebody had taken them away. Artie's voice continued. Jim heard the name, "President Grant." He thought of the trick knot, wondered if it was time to fight, useless as the effort would undoubtedly be. No. He would give Artie all the time he could.

Suddenly, it was over. The captain barked a command. There were mutterings and mutinous glances, but the mob backed away once more and then Artie was beside him, loosening the rope and pulling it off.

Jim's knees, which had not betrayed him when it seemed he was about to die, felt weak with relief. Artie resumed his grip on his arm, glanced briefly at his face, where Jim could feel the beginning swelling of a black eye and blood trickling from a split lip, and spoke peremptorily to the captain, who nodded and called out a command to one of his men.

"I have saved your life," Artie said to Jim in Kettering's arrogant tones. "Now you will repay me by causing no trouble at all while we sail to America and trade you for a great deal of money."

"What about the children?"

"Nobody wants to kill children," Artie said scornfully. "Someone will pay for them as well."

"What will you do with us until we get to America?"

"There are empty stalls for horses in the hold; they will also contain you."

"And the children."

"You and the children, yes—nobody wishes to care for children, either. You will do it."

"Fine."

"I have told Captain Rousseau to send you a doctor."

"I don't need a doctor."

"Nevertheless. I would be reassured that you will be still alive when we reach America."

Two sailors appeared to take charge of Jim; Artie handed him off with a scowl and a short burst of words and turned away.

The horse stall had been recently cleaned, and fresh straw covered the floor. The sailors shoved Jim inside so hard that he fell, awkwardly because of his bound hands. They laughed and the taller one said something that sounded derisive.

"Hey!" Jim said. "Where are the children?" He was obviously wasting his breath; they couldn't understand him. They chained the door shut and left him.

Jim got to his feet and looked around. The hatch was open, letting in light and air. The stall, about eight feet square, had solid wood sides four feet high, then iron bars another four feet to an iron-barred ceiling. He wouldn't be going anywhere, even if he wanted to. He could, however, get his hands loose. He thought about it and decided to wait a bit—he didn't want to risk raising suspicion. The kids could "help" him when they arrived.

He sat down to wait, then stood up again almost immediately as the same two sailors came down the ladder with the children between them. They certainly weren't taking any chances on their captives escaping, Jim thought with amusement, then sobered instantly as he got a good look at the children. They were unnaturally subdued, as though in shock, not even scared so much as…numb. They stood silently, staring at the floor, as the tall sailor unlocked the door. The other one pushed them gently inside. The tall one fastened the chain and they went up on deck again.

For a minute, Jim simply watched the children from across the cell. It was over. They had pulled it off. In a few days they would be home, with nobody much the worse for wear. So why did the children look so sad—didn't they know they were safe? "Kids?" he said tentatively. They finally raised their eyes, their faces lighting up with a joy that Jim found unexpectedly touching. "Are you all—" With happy cries, they ran at him, knocking him to the floor once more. He began to laugh and, once started, couldn't seem to stop.

------------------------------

They didn't see Artie again for two days. Jim suspected he was keeping to his cabin to lessen the chances of his identity being discovered. Rotating pairs of sailors saw to their needs, even allowing them up on deck for short periods of exercise. Jacob wheedled a deck of cards from one of the seamen, and Jim taught the children to play poker. They were all apt pupils, and little piles of straw changed hands regularly as they whiled away the hours.

Artie appeared on the morning of the third day, accompanied by two sailors. Why a French pirate ship would have greasepaint aboard was a mystery, but apparently they did, along with other supplies from a makeup artist's toolkit, because Artie's improvised bandage had been replaced by a lurid knife wound, inexpertly stitched. Perfectly in character as Kettering and no doubt mindful of the two men behind him, he said nothing about Jim's appearance, but did allow himself a commiserating frown. Jim knew he looked a sight—the twins had told him often enough, by turns solicitous and gleefully scandalized, as though he'd done something faintly wicked in getting beaten up. One eye had swelled almost shut; other parts of his face weren't much better. It was just as well they couldn't see the rest of him.

"We land near Jacksonville tonight," Artie said. "We will go ashore, escorted by one of Captain Rousseau's men. We will find a hotel, make the necessary contacts, and wait for the money to arrive. Then you and the children will be free to go. I will go my own way, and the French sailor will take the captain and crew's share of the ransom and rendezvous with his ship, which will be waiting a safe distance away."

"What's the going rate for government agents and little children these days?"

"That is not your concern. All you are required to know is that you will soon be set free, so there is no need for you to cause trouble." Meaning, Jim knew, that Artie expected other people to cause some. There was to be only one attendant: either Rousseau trusted Kettering more than seemed rational, or there would be more men following—probably planning to kill Artie (and likely the rest of them) and take all the money.

Artie nodded curtly, turned on his heel, and left. So. One more hurdle before they were done, but not a difficult one. They would get rid of their obvious escort, elude the covert ones, and be on a train for Washington before Rousseau suspected a thing. Jim settled back onto the straw-covered floor. "So, kids," he said, "how about another hand of poker?"

------------------------------

A month later Jim rode up to the private train he shared with Artie, courtesy of Uncle Sam, took care of his horse, and slapped the worst of the dust out of his clothes before stepping from the stable car into the parlor car. Escaping from their would-be killers had been no more difficult than expected, but they hadn't made it halfway to Washington before being diverted to another urgent assignment, this one in Arizona Territory. They had transferred custody of the Whitcomb children to another agent, said hurried and tearful (on the part of the children) goodbyes, and were on board a westbound train before they had time to catch their breath.

Artie, seated on the gold plush sofa, a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, looked up as Jim entered the car. "Have any trouble?" he asked.

"No. The sheriff will hold the prisoners until Federal agents arrive from Denver to take charge of them."

"I still can't believe Colonel Richmond didn't want us to escort them."

Jim poured himself a glass from the wine bottle sitting on the table. "I think the feeling in Washington is that, not only do we deserve a furlough, but that we're going to start making mistakes if we don't take one." He pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and tossed it into Artie's lap. "Unless these are new orders. I checked General Delivery at the Post Office."

"Richmond would have sent a telegram." Artie frowned at their names on the front of the envelope, in the Colonel's unmistakable handwriting. "Wouldn't he?"

"Open it and see."

Artie hesitated a moment longer, then abruptly tore open the envelope and removed a smaller envelope and a folded sheet of paper. His face grew more and more serious as he read.

"What?" Jim demanded.

Artie held up a restraining hand and read to the end of the page. "Colonel Richmond says that the Navy…well, here, read it yourself." Artie handed the sheet of paper back to Jim and turned to opening the smaller envelope.

Jim read, "West and Gordon: You will be pleased to learn that the ironclad Pennsylvania has recovered without incident your prisoner, Kettering, and the vial of Dr. Loveless's drug, which has been destroyed. The deaf-mute, Blythe, was dead when the ship arrived.

"Kettering, whose real name is August Meier, faces death by guillotine if extradited to Germany, and confessed to his crimes in the United States on the condition that he be allowed to remain in this country."

Jim stopped reading. "Artie," he said. His partner looked up. "Wouldn't you rather be beheaded than hanged?"

"I'd just as soon avoid either, thank you."

"Well, yes, but—"

"He's probably hoping he'll get prison instead of hanging."

"Is there any chance of that?"

"I doubt it," Artie said grimly. "Keep reading."

Jim directed his eyes back to Richmond's letter. "According to his confession, Meier was the mastermind behind the counterfeiting ring. He and his confederates, including Murdoch and Blythe, used the Pegasus as their base of operations in an ambitious counterfeiting scheme. Meier claims that Murdoch was responsible for the deaths of our operatives and that he (Meier) decided to abandon the operation to avoid any more deaths when he discovered what Murdoch had done.

"Blythe, whom Meier met three years ago when they were both working on the Florida docks, brought Meier the formula for Dr. Loveless's drug a few months ago and offered it to him in exchange for being included in the counterfeiting business. Meier had initially hoped (once he had decided to abandon the operation) to scuttle the Pegasus by feeding the drug to the crew in their rum, causing them to go insane and destroy the ship and each other. Apparently, however, the dosage was too small and the drug did not act as quickly as he had anticipated so, thinking it was not going to work at all (and doubtless feeling pressured by your presence on board), he decided to dynamite the ship instead.

"Meier claims that it was by chance that the French ship picked up the lifeboat which held him and Blythe (and only them—I fear that other passengers or crewmen were ruthlessly thrown overboard). I personally doubt the veracity of this statement, but it probably cannot be proven one way or the other, as we obviously have no jurisdiction over French nationals, even if they could be apprehended. Only one other lifeboat was recovered, and we now doubt that any more survivors will be found.

Meier and Blythe went to your island hoping to find a suitable place to relocate their printing press, which has been found in a warehouse in Jacksonville. They suspected that their comings and goings in the city might have been noticed, so they planned to acquire another ship and begin again, this time in a more private location. Meier asserts that he was forced to kill Blythe in self defense when Blythe attacked him after you left. You may draw your own conclusions about that.

"Both of you will be required in Washington when the counterfeiting case goes to trial on the fifteenth of next month; until then, consider yourselves on leave. As ever, James Richmond."

"So simple," Jim murmured. It was always a letdown, the conclusion of a case, discovering the solution to the mystery never as satisfying as it should be. In a way the answer was not even unique to each case, but monotonously the same, the motivation for the crime invariably ordinary greed. It disheartened and depressed him, this recurring intimacy with the basest aspects of human nature.

He looked up to find Artie watching him and experienced again the disconcerting sense that his partner could see inside his head. "Colonel Richmond forwarded a letter from Mrs. Whitcomb," Artie said. "Her husband is still missing, but she hopes he may yet be found."

"He won't be."

"Just listen, will you? She says, 'The children are fine. They speak of their time with you as a great adventure, full of excitement. There have been no nightmares, no unusual fears, only sadness that their papa is not with us. Through everything that happened, you somehow made them feel safe and protected. I want to thank you with all my heart for what you have done, for taking care of my precious children when I could not.'

"She goes on to invite us to visit them in Boston any time we can get free."

Jim drained his glass and set it gently on the green tablecloth. He took the stem between his thumb and forefinger and twirled it to the left and back again to the right. He looked out the window, at the dusty street lined with boardwalks and unpainted buildings, and thought about Boston, with its stately houses set off by wrought-iron fences from tree-shaded sidewalks, its fancy carriages rolling smoothly down brick-paved streets. Beautiful women in gaily-colored frocks. Leather-chaired men's clubs and their stock of vintage brandies. Music, ballrooms, theatre.

"We seem to be free right now."

A smile spread slowly across Artie's face. "I'll tell the engineer," he said.

The End

©2005


End file.

Wild Wild West